The True Meaning of Easter

I was never a real big fan of the Easter holiday. One is tempted to crawl under a rock in some far off cave and emerge heroic a few weeks later. In general, the weather is usually nice.

I remember getting a Matt Christopher book on baseball one Easter Sunday and I was happy to read the innocent book on the way to my Grandmother’s house. I sat in the backseat of our parents Eldorado determined to be a better ball player. I had the usual Easter breakfast of hard boiled eggs, rabbit ears and jelly beans. I was never one to read in the car and predictably I got sick on some back road on the way to my grandmothers.

I vaguely remember another Easter Sunday and my brother and I were hitting golf balls in the back alley. I remember Steve was trying to play a shot that sat lodged underneath the O’boyle’s back fence. I urged him to move the ball and hit it from there. Certainly winter rules apply when playing in the alley before memorial day.

One of the neighbor kids came walking up to us and asked do you mind if I play?
Steve eyed the ball with a steadfast eye and said sure as I finish this shot.

Steve lined up the shot and took a mighty swing. I have no idea where the ball went as his back swing caught an unsuspecting Kevin Gibbons right below the eye. There was blood everywhere.

From what I remember Kevin emerged weeks later battle tested and healthy.

Happy Easter